


at the tone

by pringlesmcgee (kenmarcadeblues)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Harry Styles-centric, M/M, Short, Vague Strangeness in San Francisco, You Won't Actually See Louis That Much (Sorry), but it will eventually, it's not supposed to make sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenmarcadeblues/pseuds/pringlesmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an answering machine without a phone, and "at the tone, please record your message" is something Harry never hears. It doesn't really make sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on Wattpad. Some extremely short chapters. 
> 
> WARNING: this may bore you to sleep!!

The city is a lot less crowded then Harry had expected, but he's not exactly complaining. The sky's a lot more gray than he had hoped, but it's not so bad, he thinks, because it reminds him of home, where everything is always buried beaneath a layer of clouds.

In the morning, Harry hears his answering machine picking up a call, despite the fact that the phone hadn't rang once.

It's his mum's voice that comes through. It is a voice full of distress, like she's staying strong but having a hard time doing so. _You're going to be okay, I know it_ , she says. _I love you so much, Harry. You can do this._

Harry finds it amazing that his mum can sense all the troubles and difficulties he's having finding a job, he hasn't been able to talk to her once since he got here. He wants to call back and tell her that his money isn't out yet, and that he agrees, he will be okay. He searches his flat for the phone that goes with the answering machine, but he doesn't find it.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Myles, the landlord, knocks on his door, asking for him to _pay the rent, Styles._ Harry promises that he'll stop by the bank today and get it done. The flat isn't nice by most standards. It's a one bed, one bath, closety little thing with a weird layout, on the 6th floor of the building. But San Francisco is an expensive place to live.

It's been looking grim in terms of finances so far. Harry hasn't eaten out since the day he touched down in the airport. He hasn't bought any clothes, either, which isn't really out of the ordinary anyway, he's always been thrifty that way.

In fact, Harry doesn't actually remember buying anything except for food, and maybe he hasn't. His memory isn't as sharp these days, it's as foggy as these California skies.

As he exits the bank in the afternoon, he spots a newspaper stand and instantly runs over to it. He piles a variety of different publications into his arms. He'd thought that papers in America wouldn't cost a lot, but it turns out that it's all _free_ , strangely enough. This is one thing that Harry is grateful for. He needs all the job ad pages he can get.


	3. Chapter 3

Yesterday there was an ad in the paper for a job at a bakery not far from where Harry lives. He could walk it, no problem. It'd be very convenient.

Part of him is whining, though; he doesn't want to work in another bakery. While he enjoyed that particular job, it's a been there done that kinda thing, he thinks. But the other part of him, says that he needs to make an income somehow; and baking, well, any type of cooking, really, is something that he's actually good at. This is what occupies Harry's mind tonight as he lays in his bed, staring up at the cracks that look kind of like constellations in his ceiling, when the answering machine goes off.

His sister's voice breaks the silence in Harry's flat. She sniffles loudly. _Hey, Haz. You're gonna be fine, okay? I'm not sure if you know this, but you're the strongest person I know_ , she says, blowing her nose. _Trust me when I say you'll make it through this. I love you._

Harry smiles at the kind words, although he's sad because it sounds like she's coming down with something. He hopes it's nothing serious. If he was still there, in Cheshire, he'd give her a huge hug and make sure she's fine. Hearing her voice makes Harry miss Gemma even more than he already does.


	4. Chapter 4

The bakery door twinkles open, there's a little bell hanging in the doorway. Harry heads straight to the cashier, who asks what he'd like to get. He informs the man that he's here to apply for a job, and he swiftly disappears into the backroom, assumedly to fetch the shop's manager or someone like that. A woman comes out and greets Harry, calling herself Berta.

Berta asks him many questions, like _Where are you from? Why do you want this job?_ and _Do you have any experience with baking?_ Harry tries to answers all of them as honestly and best he can. Then she asks whether he can make sourdough and he nods affirmatively. Berta raises an eyebrow. _What about San Francisco sourdough?_ Harry shakes his head at that, replying with _no, I don't think so._ He's about to ask if it's different from regular sourdough when Berta smiles, putting a hand on his shoulder. _Well, you're going to learn how. Be here at 7 sharp on Monday._

And that's why tonight, of all nights, Harry is sleeping soundly. The worries that usually cling to his mind are not be found, for he finally has a job, and although it'll still be tough, he believes that maybe he can work through his finances. And for once, it seems like everything is going right for him, like he had wanted from the start.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a total of one (count it: 1) curse word in here, but I think you can handle that, right? 
> 
> Uhm, anyways. Here's the first instance of Louis. I say instance because he doesn't appear, exactly...

Harry has been going to bed earlier and earlier each night, a bold attempt at correcting his sleeping pattern in preparation for his _new job!_ at the bakery. It feels strange, having something to look forward to, it seems to him like he's just kind of been existing ever since he moved to this city. And existing is nice, but it's better to live, to have purpose. He's definitely, hopefully, not keeping this bakery job forever; but it's his first ever job in his new home: San Francisco, California, America. And he might as well make the best of it, right?

It's (the long-anticipated) Monday morning, and a deafening yawn escapes Harry's jaw as his hand comes down on the alarm clock, alerting him that it's 6:15 and time to get his ass out of bed.

After he showers and dresses and fixes his hair, Harry can be found munching thoughtfully on a bagel at the tiny, space saving table that occupies the front part of his flat. He takes a swig of orange juice, and his ears perk up at the sound of his answering machine playing a message.

_H-hi, it's Louis_ , a high pitched but masculine voice, his best friend, calls out; and the very sound of it makes Harry smile. _When are you coming back, Haz?_ he asks, sounding rather strangled and distant. _I--I miss you, so much, you don't even know. I really hope you're okay. I promise I'll take you to the movies. I won't see anything without you, although there's loads of great stuff out now and it's really tempting_...he chuckles and it sounds empty. Then he speaks softly, _Okay, erm...I have to go now. Bye, Harry._

The machine beeps, signaling the message is over, and Harry's pretty mouth is in a frown. He misses Louis so much, oh God. He still can't believe he managed to leave him all the way in Cheshire. It's unsafe and very illegal, but Harry should've probably stuffed his bestfriend into his big suitcase. It might not've been too difficult to do, either, given Louis' small stature.

Harry remembers the way he likes to jump onto Louis and how Louis tries to carry him each time but can't ever hold him for very long, and so soon they both just collapse onto the ground, tangled up in each other, laughing and smiling as if it's their sole purpose in life.

Calling Louis back would be so great, especially right before his first day on the job, when he's feeling rather jittery. He wants to tell his best friend not to be worried about him and that he's doing just fine.

Before Harry leaves his flat, he scans around quickly for the phone, but has no success.


	6. Chapter 6

His first day at work mostly just involves him hovering over Jace, the cashier from when he came to apply, and Berta popping in every once and a while to educate him about her business.

At the end of Harry's shift, the curly haired boy bids them both adieu with a quick smile and wave. He then strolls for a of couple blocks towards the grocery store, as he's been meaning to make a lasagna for dinner. Plus, it's kind of a celebratory thing now, he supposes, for completing his first day of work unharmed and not fired.

As if an alternative outcome could even occur.

Well, technically it could, but the odds are slim to none. Harry's just going to treat himself anyway, it so happens.

Harry's tired, droopy eyes gaze at the pan of lasagna. There's still a bunch left that he has to refridgerate, and he can't fit anything more in his stomach. Looking at all the leftover pasta is making him sad (and perhaps a tad sick), as he's realizing how alone he is right now, and if only there were someone he could share this excess food with. At the moment he wishes he didn't live alone, and maybe if he could--wait! Friends! Harry needs friends! But, he thinks he forgot how to make those, unfortunately. Maybe going out for a drink would do the trick? Or, Jace could turn out to be a cool guy, right? And then they could hang out and talk and be _friendly_ ; and Jace could eat all Harry's food because cooking is fun and that uneaten lasagna is surely mocking his lack of a social life.

It'd have been a lot easier if Louis were here, though: just imagine, they could be flatmates! How cool would that've been? Very cool, Harry decides. Oh, how he misses his best friend.

Harry, upon instinct, stops and stares at the answering machine, the one that always seems to be relaying messages even though the handset is nowhere to be found. But, wait--this can't be! Is it really? He saunters over to it, and lays his hand upon the _totally-actually-there_ phone just sitting on the answering machine like it's nobody's business.

Long fingers type in the memorized number, _Louis'_ , and Harry's ears hear it begin to ring, trying to go through to the other side, to Cheshire.

It picks up, and his vision starts to blur, whole body aching and there's a faint beeping with Louis' voice exclaiming, _Harry, Haz! Are you alright? Can you hear me? It's me; it's Louis! I'm here, okay? Shh. I'm here, so hold on, yeah? Just, I'll be right back, in like a second, promise..._

The call fades out as Louis hangs up and Harry feels like he could faint at any moment. Pain, lots of pain, and a tightness in his chest as though his lungs have collapsed in on themselves.

He winces as he crumples to the floor, catapulting the phone out of his hand.

All Harry's strength goes into opening up his lungs so he can breathe again. And with that, the pain leaves and his perfect eyesight returns.

With a heart still thumping like mad, he slithers into his bed, not even bothering to strip his clothes.

He has no idea in hell what has just happened, all he knows is that it's drained him and now he feels incredibly frail and weak, and he never wants to go throught whatever it was again.


	7. Chapter 7

Two weeks go by, and Harry's slowly but surely getting into the swing of things at the bakery. No messages on the answering machine, nothing out of the ordinary. And he's grateful for this.

The call still haunts him, though.

Today after he and Jace close up the shop (it's an early closing day), Jace asks him if he's ever been to Java Jungle, and Harry shakes his head. Then he's giving Harry a 5 star review of the place, raving about their brownies and also how _the coffee is the fucking bomb_ , and soon he is inviting the curly haired lad to go with him. At first Harry waves him off, but Jace absolutely insists, and well, who is Harry to say no, really?

In all honesty, Harry's pretty happy to be sitting in Jace's car, which is strangely quiet as it drives, and Jace informs him that it's electric, and wow, now they're making small talk on the way to the coffee shop.

It turns out Java Jungle actually does look quite like a jungle, if Harry admits: complete with an assortment of plants for sale, statues of wild animals, and a huge artificial tree smack dab in the middle of everything, wind-chimes and other ornaments hanging from its many branches.

Harry orders a mocha, Jace gets a banana-choco-peanut smoothie and a brownie for each of them, while telling Harry that _it's my treat, so back off_ just before he pays for all of it. Sitting down on the cool metalwork chairs, Jace is leaning on his elbows at Harry across the wooden table and is doing most of the talking, as Harry listens intently and chimes in every once and a while, both of them sipping their drinks, too. It's just nice and Harry finds that Jace was right; the coffee's great. He has yet to try the infamous brownie, though.

Without knowing it, Harry's staring straight into Jace's eyes as if he's looking at his soul, or something like that, and it's a bit strange so Jace addresses it. And Harry's face just goes pink, blushing all over, because he really didn't realize what he was doing, and is worried that maybe Jace is creeped out now by him and won't want to ever hang out again. But it's just, they're this certain shade of blue, and it's not his fault if his eyes _really remind me of someone else I know's, sorry._

When his co-worker asks who, Harry's voice is small and mumbly when he answers one word: _Louis_.

Jace repeats the name, louder than Harry, with a questioning tone. Harry nods slowly. Jace quirks up a thick eyebrow when he asks who that is, and his expression is confusing Harry.

When Harry confesses that it's his best friend whom he left back in Cheshire, Jace tries to hide his surprise. And it works; for the most part, Harry doesn't really pick up on it.

Jace thinks the way Harry had stared into his eyes was so wistful, like he was getting lost in them.

If Jace isn't mistaken, Harry had looked pretty damn smitten. So, who is this Louis really? He's a bit curious but doesn't inquire further, because hey, if Harry wants to use a label like best friend, he won't tell him to do otherwise, it's Harry's business.

The bottom line of it is: Jace thinks that this Louis person must certainly be closer than a mere best friend. Something else might be going on there, but Harry would tell him if and when he wanted to. Right?


	8. Chapter 8

Harry yawns. He is sitting peacefully on a bench, looking out into the bay, where the overcast sky meets the dark, crisp ocean. Every breath he takes smells like sea salt and fried fish, and he smiles absentmindedly, brushing back his curly bangs when they come loose in his eyes due to the strong gusts of wind. San Francisco is different from Cheshire: one is a big, metro-coastal city and the other contrasts as a quiet, unassuming yet sweet town; even so, San Francisco feels homely and familiar. It's the horrible weather - the weather that Harry's acclimated to - isn't it? It must be.

In the space of a second, Harry's once quiet mind shifts, brow creasing with the weight of his thoughts. Dreams about Louis have been plaguing Harry, beginning on the night after Jace took him to Java Jungle. They've ranged from the normal (seeing a movie with Louis) to the non-heterosexual (kissing Louis), to the strange (Louis sitting and sobbing while Harry lay in a bed, unable to move). They've  all been about Harry with Louis, and in each one, Harry had this feeling that persisted even when he woke up. He could only begin to describe it as pure _longing_.

Harry wonders what the hell his subconscious is trying pull, because even when trying to embrace a scene of solitude today, he wishes Louis were here beside him, taking in at least a few of Harry's understandings of _right now_. How would it feel to have Louis' warm arms around him, shielding Harry from the wind?

Best friend, best friend, _best friend_...Harry can't help but crave for the older boy's presence. What is the blue-eyed boy up to these days anyway, without Harry? Could Louis be feeling this withdrawal, too; the strong, psychological kind that happens with drugs that Harry learned about in school? Now, quite selfishly, Harry is hoping these feelings to be mutual.

Other than that, he supposes, his life is decidedly in order. Myles hasn't had to harass Harry about the rent in what feels like forever. Jace had invited him out a couple times, which were a lot of fun. Somehow, on one such nightly excursion Harry was convinced to sing karaoke; at first he was very timid because it felt like all eyes in the bar were fixated on him but he managed to shake off his nerves, and soon had everyone clapping and wooing at his performance. He knows some people now: Carrie, Dan, Jackson, and a few others whose name he's forgotten. He and Jace made dinner together and hung out at Harry's, which was the first time he'd had anyone over in that itty bitty flat. Harry and Jace are friends, for certain - the fact that Jace praised Harry over the potatoes au gratin he'd made is proof enough.

Harry gets up and walks to the nearest bus stop, only a few minutes away. He whistles a tune while he waits, his long hands stuffed in the pockets of a heavy windbreaker jacket and preoccupied with minute pieces of loose thread.

//

The sun begins its descent for the evening when Harry is struck with something. A question as he grills up his dinner: how much does he know? It's broad, yes, but it's valid.

Harry doesn't know the exact day he arrived in San Francisco. Nor does he know how his flight went because he doesn't remember the flight at all. How or why he chose this flat has escaped his mind, too. And he can't come up with any legitimate reason why he'd wanted to move to San Francisco of all places, in the first place.

When did he give his mom his number? And Gemma? And _Louis_? How did any of them know to call?

 _The phone!_ Actually, the answering machine. Harry basically glares at the goddamned device, emerald eyes squinting in scrutiny. And the handset that he's been on the lookout for since the very day he moved in is, of course, absent. It always is, and any person could conclude that if they repeatedly couldn't locate it, then maybe it had been taken away or disposed of - and perhaps the answering machine was supposed to go as well but was forgotten - but not in this situation. Because there was a day when it _was_ there; maybe he remembers it all too vividly. The day that Harry had tried to make a call and, likewise, almost died (at least, that's what it'd felt like).

Hm. Well, maybe that didn't actually happen. That could be it. That might be it! His mind could've created those memories. There's a possibility that the memories were constructed for some reason, that he genuinely believes that the event took place and so it's real but only for Harry. Mr. Marcos would've entertained that possibility had a scenario like this been a discussion topic in psychology class, for sure.

But he still doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, does he? Harry thinks he should freak out. Flip his shit, bang on the walls, and scream and scream and scream. But that's exhausting. Plus, he's hungry. He settles for screaming once and then is quiet for the remainder of the night.


	9. Chapter 9

It's slow in the bakery today, and Harry has a lot of time to zone out and be inside his head. Eventually, sounding like he's talking to himself, he asks the cashier if he has a phone. Jace is used to Harry speaking like this and tells him that he does, indeed, have a cellphone. Harry shakes his head as he clarifies, _No, a home phone..._

Jace nods as he absentmindedly counts the cash in the register. He assures Harry he has one of those, as well.

Harry goes quiet for a minute, which confuses his friend a little. It's just that he's wondering if he's really going to go down this road, and so he's hesitating; he risks sounding downright absurd, but he has to know - that's what friends are for, anyway, isn't it? Helping you to figure out your own life (and other shit, too, obviously, like eating and karaoke-ing with you).

If this was Louis, he wouldn't have hesitated. But it wasn't Louis. No matter how blue Jace's eyes were, the man would never be the feathery hair that frequents Harry's dreams, the soft-lilted voice who'd called him.

Louis must have called his phone. Otherwise there wouldn't be a message. The answering machine wouldn't have anything to play. That's how it works. And yet...

Harry decides to stick to the path which he has started on as he lazily organizes and restocks various items, with one hand reaching up and running through his thick mop of curls as he does so. There's loaves, croissants, rolls, and tarts. And of course, the ever-famous San Francisco sourdough. He advances with another question. _Well do you ever, like, lose your handset for it?_ At that, Jace shrugs but says yes.

That's when sentences begin to tumble out of Harry's mouth: explanation of the answering machine, descriptions of the calls from his mom, sister, and Louis, and he even...yes, he details what went down when Harry himself had made a call.

Then Jace asks him if he's high, to which he squeaks out, _What? No! No._

Jace side-eyes him in uncertainty. _If you are then I won't tell Bertha, but you better not pull this again._ Harry insists that he's not, in fact, high and that he's never even done drugs _except for ones prescribed by doctors and such_.  
And Harry considers what the black-haired man suggests, which is talking to his landlord about all this phone shit; however, he doesn't like the sound of what Jace says next, in a softer tone, knowing he might not've needed to go there.

No, Harry does not want to see someone - shrink, psychologist, or otherwise. No, thank you.

What did he expect? Of course Jace doesn't think he's well, and Jace can see he's troubled about things that aren't normal to be troubled about. Things that don't quite add up to anyone who isn't a first-hand witness and therefore couldn't plausibly be completely true.

So no, Harry tries not to take any offense to Jace being a   _friend-who-is-concerned._ But that doesn't change the fact that Harry's just fine.

He is fine.

He is.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry Styles wishes he were fine. But that's not the case.

His brain is a broken record, replaying the sequence of last Tuesday over and over. It makes sense because last Tuesday was the last time Harry had felt fine; he's a human, after all, and humans mourn lost feelings like this sometimes. That's not unusual, though all other aspects of his life are.

In the morning, Harry had risen and followed roughly the same routine he did every early work day. Shower, dress, eat. Check for phone, leave the flat, hop in the building's rickety elevator. Make small talk with whoever he ran into in there, leave the building, walk.

It shouldn't have been a memorable day. It was just _Tuesday_.

A customer bought a loaf of sourdough and a whole box of cookies. Harry smiled at the latter purchase, _They're quite good, huh?_

The woman nodded and chuckled. _Yep, they are. No party of mine would be complete without them._ Harry's chest warmed; he'd definitely be telling Bertha about that claim. The old woman would surely smile and it'd reaffirm her reasons for owning this type of business.

The woman was very easy on the eyes: long, wavy hair similar in color to Harry's, almond-shaped eyes also similar in color to Harry's. And her nose...was sculpted like Harry's too, a flattish bridge and wide nostrils, except smaller and more feminine. _But...how?_

Harry blinked hard and gulped. He felt dizzy, and the woman - who couldn't have been his older sister, Gemma Styles - asked him, in an American accent, if he was okay. It was hard to said yes.

And then there was nothing. Nothing but the hardness of the countertop Harry had fallen asleep on and his vision being engulfed by comfortable blackness. Eventually, the countertop melded into him; he felt nothing and saw nothing. It was alright.

That is, until a voice roused his consciousness. It was Gemma, ringing out shrill and desperate. _Harry, fuck! Harry, Hazza, no! No G-god, please, she begged. Don't! Please d-don't!_ Her face came to him somehow, too - a manifested image of grief and pain that there was no time to decipher. _If you can hear me -_

Harry awoke in a sweat, and it was anything but cold. He breathed in smoke, which caused him to cough and fling open his eyes - where was he, again?

Everything had been illuminated in orange-red, if it wasn't already reduced to orange-red flames or charred-black whatever it had once been. Harry's body felt so much: lungs pinched from filling with fumes, eyes overwhelmed and watering, skin tightening in response to the heat - but his body did nothing.

Eventually, however, his feet came to a realization and instructed him to move.

Coughing until he grew dizzy, he sat on the sidewalk in his stupor, watching Bertha's bakery slowly smolder away across the street. Like the homeless men he sometimes spared change to, Harry was unemployed and all the worse for wear.

Apparently San Fransisco didn't have a fire department. If it did, surely all the brave, helmet-wearing people would have swarmed that bakery, stopped it from being baked (Harry swears it's accurate) right down into its own foundation, with the impossibly long hose snaking about and all that heroic stuff. But no. No water was wasted. Not for Bertha. Not for bread. Not on Tuesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think there's only going to be 3 (or maybe even just 2) more parts to this
> 
> this is so weird and boring and confusing I'm so sorry


End file.
